


Don't

by Saber_Wing



Category: Avengers Assemble (Cartoon), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Battleworld (Marvel), Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Superhusbands (Marvel), Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:16:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25078243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saber_Wing/pseuds/Saber_Wing
Summary: All Tony needed to do was stay one step ahead of everyone. Unfortunately, that meant staying away from everyone. For four months.Four months, two weeks, and six days.God, Tony missed being touched.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 20
Kudos: 277





	Don't

**Author's Note:**

> This one's for my AA Discord crew: you know who you are <3\. Also, I've been writing some pretty depressing shit. It felt like time for some good old fashioned h/c. 
> 
> I've never been satisfied with the reunion in season 4 of Avengers Assemble, though the spin hug was a gift from God. Still, it needed something more. This is that for me. Hope it is for you!
> 
> Lots of Love,
> 
> Saber

Tony Stark was a tactile guy.

He wasn’t a ‘hugger,’ but he’d always been liberal with casual contact. A slap on the shoulder here, a hip check there. The Avengers came to expect it. Didn’t seem to mind if Tony slung an arm around their shoulders at a briefing or propped his feet up on their leg. It was just one of the many ways Tony chose to express himself. Helped him stay grounded, without the intimacy of an embrace, or other manners of touch. The sloppy ones, with _feelings._

Steve was an exception. Tony all but hung off his boyfriend when he could get away with it, which was most of the time. If he wasn’t falling asleep on Steve’s shoulder during movie nights, Steve was the one pulling _him_ into his lap for a snuggle.

Tony knew this about himself, of course. Touching just came naturally. Tiny, harmless gestures never hurt anyone. They even seemed to endear people to him if he used them strategically enough. At galas, or with the press. His etiquette teachers, perhaps seeing an opportunity there, had opted not to train it out of him, for that very reason. It was a personality quirk that, on occasion, happened to be useful. He’d never thought of it as an _integral_ part of himself.

…before.

Before Tony got stranded in a no-tech dimension, with only the sound of his own voice for company. Before he’d been shuffled between one reality and the next and shoved onto a mismatched, puzzle-piece world, with the puppet master floating above him, holding all his strings.

Well, fuck that. And fuck _him._ Fuck him, and his shitty white suspenders. All Tony needed to do was stay one step ahead of everyone. Unfortunately, that meant staying _away_ from everyone. For four months.

Four months, two weeks, and six days.

And, he succeeded.

Tony Stark always got what he wanted.

It didn’t matter. He was back at the tower now. Tony was back at the tower, and Steve hadn’t left his side. Hell, he didn’t think he’d left Steve’s line of _sight._

Tony sighed heavily, rubbing his face with both hands. It was good to be home. Everyone had been _so_ happy to see him, and that was nice. It was nice—to be missed. He’d missed _them_ dearly. But Tony wasn’t used to them. He wasn’t used to having one person for company, never mind a _dozen_.

The briefing, and dinner afterward, had taken everything out of him. Tony felt strained, mind buzzing with equal parts stimulation and exhaustion, and he was so tired, his eyes _burned_.

Tony was overjoyed, overwhelmed. Too many emotions to name boiled over, festering in his gut. He had nowhere to put them. Everything was just this side of too much, and he needed to decompress. He needed the world to _stop._

The others had wandered off after dinner, graciously pretending they had something better to do. Clearly, they wanted to give Steve and Tony some time alone after six months apart. And fuck, Tony appreciated that. Steve was at the bar in the corner, tidying up the last of the dirty dishes. And, if Tony closed his eyes? He could pretend they were all back in New York, and that things were okay again.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. God, he was tired. But he was here.

He was _home._

There it was again, the burning. Tony was tired, that was all. He hadn’t slept for a while. Hard to sleep, in the ass end of the desert, surrounded by mummies that wanted to eat your face. Every time he jolted awake, he thought he was in Afghanistan, anyway, so maybe they’d been doing Tony a favor.

He’d rather fight mummified zombies than talk himself down from a panic attack in good old ancient Egypt _any_ day.

What the hell was his life, anyway?

“Tony?” He heard Steve approach. Felt him crouching at his side. And Tony _still_ flinched when he set a hand on his arm.

He didn’t mean to. _God,_ Tony missed being touched. It was fucking _embarrassing,_ how much he missed it. He missed casual arms thrown over his shoulders and propping his feet on their legs _._ He missed falling asleep in Steve’s arms and staying there until morning. He missed getting his ass kicked when he sparred with Natasha. He missed _hugs._

The only time he’d been touched in the past six months, he’d nearly been torn apart.

Steve dropped Tony’s arm so fast that he wondered, for one insane moment, if it was on fire. He lifted his head, swallowing hard. His throat felt _thick_. His eyes—burning. His vision—blurred.

_Don’t cry._

_Don’t you fucking dare._

Steve looked heartbroken, his face, white. He raised both hands so Tony could see them, moving slowly.

“Sorry,” Tony answered, tried to clear his throat. “It’s, uh…been a while.” His voice broke on the last word, and Tony winced, willed the tears beneath his eyes not to fall. If he started now, he’d never stop.

Tony didn’t think of his time in the desert. Didn’t think of the mummies, crawling over his prone body. He didn’t think of their rotted, skeletal fingers, clawing at his face. Draped over his stomach and thighs. Piled over one another, until he was suffocating. Until he was buried under them, and he couldn’t _breathe._ Why was it that every time he almost died, it was because he couldn’t _breathe?_

They were tearing at his clothes. Clutching at his arms. He could smell the rotting flesh, peeling from their bones. He was going to die here, in ancient Egypt. A death fit for a pharaoh. A tribute worthy of a king.

“Hey, no, it’s okay,” Steve soothed, dropping his arms. He sat next to Tony on the couch, careful to put space between them _._ His smile shook. “I’m just glad I have you back.”

Tony wrapped both arms around his middle.

 _Don’t go,_ he thought, biting back a sob _._

He didn’t say the words. Couldn’t even swallow anymore, his throat felt so tight, and God, his eyes were on fire. Something wet trickled down his cheek. He brushed it away, but the floodgates were open, and Tony’s body wasn’t having anything else.

The tears had waited long enough.

Steve noticed, because of course he did. He made a low, choked-off noise of distress, reaching for Tony before he could think better of it. He seemed to remember himself at the last moment, hand pausing just above Tony’s knee. His face twisted with something like agony, but obligingly, he pulled back his arm, with helpless, miserable eyes.

Tony’s chest seized with panic. He grabbed Steve’s wrist.

Don’t _leave me._

Tony felt the last of his control crumble, walls coming down like a castle’s in a siege.

“Don’t go.” Tony’s voice broke on a sob. His face crumpled. “Don’t _leave_ me.”

Please. He couldn’t bring himself to add it, but _please._

_Please._

Steve was there in a heartbeat. He was there, and Tony was crying, and he needed to stop because it was _fine_. He was home now. He was _safe._

Tony all but threw himself into Steve’s arms. He crawled into his lap. Buried his face in the side of his neck, shaking. Oh, to be _held_ again.

It felt _so_ good.

“Hey, shh…it’s okay.” Steve swept an arm around his waist. Gathered him up. “Let it out, sweetheart. I’m here. Shh…”

Tony didn’t need to be told twice.

He sobbed. Loudly. He couldn’t help it. His chest was bursting, felt like it could collapse in on itself. And he wrapped both legs around Steve’s waist. Clutched at the back of his shoulders so hard, his arms _ached_.

“I thought I’d lost you.” Steve cupped the back of his head, petting his hair. His voice was raspy, trembling with emotion. “God. Tony…”

Tony was too overcome to say anything. All he could do was burrow his face deeper into Steve’s neck. The two of them couldn’t have been any closer to each other if they tried, and it was too much _,_ but _so_ far from enough. He could hold Steve for the rest of eternity, and it wouldn’t be enough.

“You must have been _so_ scared.” Steve kissed the side of his head. Tony huffed, _yeah, no shit,_ and he felt his lover smile, as if he’d heard the words, too. Steve sobered a moment later, buried his face in Tony’s hair. “I love you. God almighty, I love you. _So_ much.”

“Why’d you have to bring _God_ into this?” Tony croaked, sniffling into Steve’s shirt. “He can get his own hug. This one’s mine.”

Steve laughed. Gave Tony a smile, soft and sweet. “That Tony Stark,” he quipped, pulling back just far enough to kiss each of his eyelids. “What a guy.”

They stayed that way for what must have been hours. Could have been _days_. And when Steve finally carried Tony up to bed hours later, they made the softest, sweetest love he’d ever had. Steve worshipped his body. Made him feel cherished.

You couldn’t cure nightmares with a cuddle. Couldn’t wash pain away with a kiss. Couldn’t take ugly memories and replace them with something beautiful. But, waking up next to Steve Rogers? _Falling_ asleep, nestled in his arms?

Came pretty damn close. 


End file.
